Yin and Yang
by Zothar
Summary: Some champions naturally complete the other, for better or for worse. A series of one-shots at the pairs of champions who bring out each others strengths, weaknesses, or simply go together. Formerly "Shadow's Hate, Duelist's Fear".
1. Shadow's Hate, Duelist's Fear

He hated her.

Emotions are a dangerous thing for an assassin. They cause a loss of control, blindness, and recklessness. To be successful, one must have an iron control over every part of their being: physical, mental, and emotional. You do not love your allies, you do not hate your opponents, and you do not fear your enemies. Never bathe in the joy of victory, nor wallow in the pain of defeat. If you win, you win. If you lose, learn without anguish. An assassin does not feel anything beyond the need to finish their job.

But he hated her. She, who was so different from him in every way possible. Born into wealth and power, she fought for the love of the game and her name. Everything she had needed had been handed to her as a child; not only the training and the weapons needed to make a duelist, but the basics. Food, warmth, a roof. Safety.

Many people had initially insulted Talon's heritage, or lack thereof, before he had joined the League. It had never bothered him then, and it still didn't. But something about the way she said "peasant" drove him mad. For someone who had never known need, never known the pain of living through hunger and thirst, to throw such a word around carelessly angered him. And anger is dangerous.

When they first met, Talon said nothing. Fiora strode around the room, challenging champion after champion to a duel. When she reached him, she laughed.

"I remember reading about you; a street dog from Noxus who likes to play assassin." She sneered, standing toe-to-toe with the man. She was short, the top of her head just under his eyes, yet she managed to look down on him. It took all of Talon's willpower to turn and walk away without shoving a blade in her throat.

They met hundreds, if not thousands of times on the Fields of Justice since. Each time, Fiora smirks and makes sounds and motions as if beckoning a dog. Each time, Talon masks hatred and anger, fighting in the same cold, calculated manner as always. Sometimes he won, sometimes she won. He had never bothered to keep count of the statistics, though he was sure she did. It did not matter to him, for he would continue to do his job regardless. He found it impossible, however, to quell the small spark of satisfaction each time he killed her in the ring.

An assassin must not have emotions. An assassin is in total control of their faculties, uninfluenced by those around them. An assassin does not love, and does not hate.

He hated her.

* * *

She feared him.

A duelist doesn't fear. If you can beat your opponent, there is no reason to fear. If not, fear will not grant you victory, nor will it ensure mercy. Fear slows your steps and causes you to doubt your strikes. The rest of the emotions may come and go; happiness, joy, anger, sadness, and lust can all be used to their full advantage. But not fear; never fear. A duelist never fears.

But she feared him. Her opposite, seemingly in every way. She faced her opponents when fighting them, looking them in the eyes, as a sign of respect. He attacked from behind, unannounced, and quiet. He would never give a moment's notice before an attack, and if you were dying on the ground, he would turn and walk away. The only time she would see his eyes was when he held her still while slipping his blade into her throat; her body either too tired or too broken to resist. His eyes, so cold and emotionless, would watch without remorse as he did his deed; neither sadistically slowly, nor mercifully quick, but callused and casual. It meant nothing to him.

People had always questioned her abilities. While growing up, it was because she was a woman, because she wasn't tall, or because she was rich. When her father's dishonesty became known, doubts of her true abilities once again rose. Each time someone spoke out, her challenge and eventual victory would silence them. She knew that if she lost even one fight, no matter which opponent, no matter how close, her name and honor would crumble. Still, she never feared the men and women she fought against. Each time they became stronger and more powerful, her determination rose to match. She had no equal.

Nobody questioned Talon's abilities. Rooms would go quiet when he entered, and powerful champions would unconsciously feel their necks and throats. He rarely spoke, allowing Katarina or Cassiopeia to talk on his behalf. No emotions ever showed on his face or features. It was as if he was a machine made to kill. And it unnerved her more than she would admit.

She had insulted him. Perhaps by doing so, she thought, her unease would melt. Or perhaps he would react, showing her that he was truly human, not a robot or demon. He had looked at her, and she almost saw something akin to emotion flicker in his eyes. But before she could know for sure, he turned and calmly walked away. Nobody turned their back on the Grand Duelist; nobody still alive, anyways. But she couldn't gather the nerve to chase him.

She knew the number of battles they've had. She knew that her victories outnumbered his by four. It was an uncomfortably low number, one that could easily change by the end of their next encounter. Each day, whether it be on the field or at the institution barracks in passing, she taunts him, hoping to elicit some reaction. Each time she is completely ignored, and she spends the remainder of the fight with a hint of fear every time she turns around.

A duelist is above all assured in their power. They gloat in victory; they never experience defeat. Fear is not a factor, not an emotion that they can experience any more.

She feared him.


	2. Warrior's Trust, Queen's Love

He trusts her.

As a barbarian and a nomad, survival means complete self-reliance. Tryndamere knows this, and has always abided by his single rule: trust no one. His strength came from his rage, his tenacity, and his lust for revenge. And while he was loyal to the people who flocked to him, his trust did not extend to his men. After all, they only followed power. Had he not been as strong, they would cast him aside as a nobody. A barbarian trusts none.

But he trusts her. She, who after years of searching, offers his people and himself a home. She who can be warm, polite, and comforting to politicians and embassies one moment, and a cold, battle hardened warrior the next. Ashe's unpredictability seemed only to draw him closer. After years of being alone, of not sharing so much as a room with another man or woman, her presence is both comforting and foreign. But that's okay with him; after all, who would want boring?

He hadn't always trusted her. When he first saw her, he almost detested her based on principle. She represented everything he wasn't: class, wealth, political power, and culture. She held her head high and carried herself with such authority that Tryndamere nearly bowed to her of his own free will. Hers was the power of money and lineage, of economic brilliance mixed with savvy knowledge of the political world, and it far outweighed the power he could possess with his sword and rage alone.

But she was different from the other nobles and artisans he had met before. He knew how to read people, and often saw true intentions and character through a well-practiced mask. When she spoke, it was sincere. When she asked him questions, she wanted to know the answer. His brusque, matter-of-fact attitude didn't sway her in the least. And, most importantly, she kept her word. She gave him and his people a home.

Their marriage was political for a long time, though thanks to a certain fish that was slowly changing. Years of fighting together on the Fields of Justice, of leading their country, and of simply living together had forged something within him that Tryndamere couldn't quite describe. For the longest time, he knew that he was incapable of love, of intimacy. It had been yanked from him the day his family was murdered. But slowly, surely, she was beginning to prove him wrong. Not yet, but someday. Someday, he could love.

A barbarian is completely self-reliant, and a warrior knows that the only one you can count on to have your back is yourself. There is no room for error, and there is no need to trust anybody.

He trusts her with his life.

* * *

She loves him.

As a politician, she knows the game. You talk with the embassies, verbally dancing around issues and schemes until you reach an unspoken agreement. There are bribes, there are alliances, and there are marriages. Each is simply a tool used in the gathering of political power. The strain consumes her life, leaving almost no time for personal matters. The thought of a family, of affection or a relationship with anybody is farfetched; with someone in her political world, unthinkable. A politician doesn't become attached, doesn't love.

And yet, she loves him. His loud mannerisms, quieter and more reserved after years of practice and discipline, still stands in stark contrast to the rest of the nobility, and he is most likely the best behaved barbarian at that. And though a lifetime of conditioning allows her to maintain a stoic and straight face, her willpower to suppress a grin is tested when her husband blatantly asks a council representative "why the hell you have an outdoor fountain if you can't wash in it? It's a waste of perfectly good water!" Or how he will demand, from time to time, to cook his own food, which results in a messy kitchen, very angry cooking servants, and the most rudimentary-made meal ever served within the castle (though the food is excellent, and better than anything the servants could make, she will admit).

Her love was hard won; like many hence, their first encounter was less than ideal. The warrior, the barbarian, marched upon her lands with an army that could cast fear into the hearts of the most hardened Noxian generals. The barbarians had been known to wave the flag of peace until the city dropped its gate, and then attack without mercy. So when she greeted him, it was with as much authority and intimidation as she could muster. She chose her best clothes, took her finest royal guard, and even had a large part of her army escort her to the waiting barbarian leader. She had hoped for fear, intimidation, even a look of surprise. But Tryndamere had simply glanced at the show, grunted, then strode forward and greeted her as his equal. Her entourage had been appalled at his lack of respect, but Ashe couldn't help but feel admiration. She returned his gesture, refusing to treat him inferior during all of their talks. And his cold, brutal honesty was refreshing to her mind. After years of playing the political games, she was able to talk openly and straight. And she loved him for it.

It was a long time after that before their relationship grew past the political. It had taken a threat on his life, as well as some helpful advice from Fizz, for her once again break the political lens she had viewed him through. She saw once again the man she had originally seen; the handsome, rugged, honest man, who threw political correctness to the wind and treated the wealthy duke the same as the lowly pauper. And when she saw him happily playing with the young children his people and, slowly, her people brought him, she found herself falling in love with him all over again.

It's the little things that remind her now. The under-his-breath cursing as he attempts to make sense of another Yordle's contraption, his look of pure confusion whenever he sees four spoons and three forks at a formal dinner ("But why so many? Are they so pompous that their silver wear demands their own course? Is the salad fork too important to be bothered with steak?"), or the way he'll unconsciously wrap his arm around her while they sleep. They all make her smile, and remind her again that she loves him.

A politician is distant and removed. They do what they must for the good of their people, and do not dwell in the personal. A politician does not love.

She loves him.


	3. Nature's Despise, Hybrid's Pity

He despises her.

Maokai has stood on the fields of justice for far longer than any other champion, longer than the fields have officially been there themselves. He knows, though he can't understand how, the cycle of life that had been in place before the putrid humans ever showed their face. Back when it was simply the animals and plants, the world was pure. There was no evil, because evil could not exist in a lack of sentient. But when man came, bringing with him his tools and his weapons and his magic, everything changed. The land had been torn apart by industry and war, the balance of magic disrupted to the point of no return. And he hated them for it.

But her he despises more than any other. The very thought that she would give up her heritage, her true lineage as a plant, and embrace the body of a human made him quake to the core with disgust. Zyra's plant form was twisted to sentience, similarly to his; the magic of the Rune Wars did terrible things to the earth. But when she chose, freely, to accept and take the body of a mortal, she made the ultimate betrayal to her kind.

Maokai had seen many things from the time he was a sapling to when he joined the League. He had witnessed most of what the humans had to offer, and knew that nothing good could ever come of it. He cared not for the power that sentience brought, nor the ability to reason. By logic's standards, it was the mortals themselves that gave him the ability to hate them. And he would abuse that ability to the end.

When he first saw her, Maokai had almost felt something close to relief. He had assumed that her story was similar to his; brought to consciousness against her will, looking for a change back. But it wasn't long before he realized that not only had she chosen this fate for herself, she also never intended to return. He mocked her lust for power, greater than many humans by now. She was an abomination, a disgrace, and sacrilege to everything he knew to be true and pure.

Maokai hates all humans, any sentient being. His anger fuels his fights, and he will not rest until he changes back or they are dead. But Zyra holds a special place of abhorrence in his mind.

He despises her.

* * *

She pities him.

Even with her human memories, Zyra is driven with the same instinct she's had since her creation. She preys on the weak, growing stronger as she devours any who are careless enough to fall into her trap. Man, woman, child; it doesn't matter to her. She cares not for their personal struggles or problems. She is a force of nature.

And yet, she pities him. She sees the power he possesses, the strength which runs through his roots and branches. In her hybrid mind, the natural lust for power and the human concept of emotion merge to create a strange attraction to him. She doesn't understand it, nor does she really care. She can always sense where he is outside the Fields of justice, feeling his body move with her mind. He is always able to tell, and is constantly blocking her out. She sometimes wishes he would join her in power, to overrun the living in an army of vegetation. But his old beliefs keep him rooted strongly to the ground, and for that, she pities him.

His opinions of her are no secret; when she had loudly proclaimed that she had no intention of going back to her old life, he nearly crushed her. His bellows of rage shocked those standing around, even as the summoners held him back. She could feel his power coursing through his roots and branches, the air crackling with the magic he possessed. For her, it was euphoric.

He will never be able to break his single-tract mentality, she knows. His only goal is to revert the world to what it was before. But she knows the truth; there is no going back. The humans had changed things, permanently. To wish for the old was useless; to embrace the new was wise. One must discard the notions of peace and balance, finding instead true power in a world of rising titans. She will obtain this power, and a small part of her wishes he could see it and join her. But he never will.

She pities him.


	4. Nightmare's Curiosity, Spellthief's Want

She intrigues him.

He is a monster of the night; a being that can scare even the summoners. His power comes from his ability to incite fear into those who see him and surround them in endless darkness. No man can hear the whispering of his thoughts and stay sane for long. He is the dark, the living nightmare.

And yet, she intrigues him. From the time they met on the Fields of Justice, his curiosity for this girl has been perked, and even he is unsure why. She is beautiful, without a doubt; however, such tangible things mean little to a phantom. She is strong as well, though there are many strong in the league he is not so captivated by. It is, perhaps, her abilities that draw his interest. The way she manipulates and bends the light, brightening her path and using it against her enemies. His opposite, really, when it comes to the visible spectrum; she will encase her opponents in the light of the sun, he in the darkness of the void. So different, and yet, to the same end.

He has been caught in her light prisms before; the experience is one he hates to repeat. The exposing brightness makes him feel naked before her, as if his shroud of fear is ripped away and she can see the nightmare for what it truly is: a figment, a dream, expelled as easily as a bad thought. It is the only thing Nocturne can admit truly frightens him, though he would experience it again before allowing anyone to know such a fact. The darkness is his home and his comfort, and Lux represents the epitome of his fears: the fear that the darkness will vanish, and light will rule. And even then, he cannot help but to be strangely curious about the young, beautiful woman who can elicit such strong reactions out of him.

Nocturne is darkness; he consumes his enemies with fear and chaos. He is a phantom, intangible and unknown. His motives secretive, his emotions gone, he is the night.

And yet, she intrigues him.

* * *

She's drawn to him.

Lux draws upon the power of the light. She is a Crownguard, a proud member of the Demacia nobility. Her brother proudly brags of her virtue to all he knows, and she lives up to the expectation. She is the light of Demacia.

And yet she is drawn to him, to his darkness. His mystery consumes her, draws her in with an attraction she would never admit to the Demacia high court. She knows it's silly; the fantastical version of the good girl falling for the bad boy, but she cannot help herself. The first time they met on the fields of justice, he had attacked her without warning. The blinding, terrifying experience nearly caused her to lose consciousness, and she had barely escaped with her life. But when it was over, she felt a strange feeling of exhilaration. It had been an experience never felt before, and as much as she initially tried to deny it, she wanted to feel it again. The adrenaline running through her veins, the excitement and fear tingling up and down her spine, and the threat of "Darkness" whispered against the back of her neck was as exciting as it was terrifying. And a small part of her couldn't help but wonder if her light prisms had the same effect on him as he did on her.

For as long as she can remember, Lux has been afraid of the dark. It is a secret which, in recent years, has been kept from even Garen (the only one who knows is Talon, who advised her to keep the secret from all to avoid appearing weak). A small light spell bathes her room in a soft glow as she sleeps, and lights her path along dark walks and journeys. But now, from time to time, she has attempted to go into the dark alone. The thought of meeting the nightmare away from the safety of the league and the light makes her quiver, though from fear or excitement she is unsure. All she knows for sure is that she is drawn to this phantom in a way she has not known for anybody before.

Lux Crownguard is nobility. She will represent the virtue and purity of their state for as long as she lives. She is the light of Demacia.

She is drawn to him.


	5. Yordle's Confusion, Judgment's Anger

She confuses him.

To many, Ziggs lacks much of the common sense required to be sane. And for the most part, they would be correct. Thoughts run in a constant stream through his mind, many of them making their way out of his mouth in a constant muttering that never seems to stop. The whole world is filled with things that don't make sense; and that's okay with him. He doesn't need to make sense of anything. He just likes to make bombs. If it's not needed for survival or bomb making, it's pointless to try and figure out.

And yet, she confuses him. Her elevated position in Valoran, her need for the calm and controlled, and her constant attempts to keep him in line confuse the small yordle, as well as amuse him. After all, he is the hexplosive's expert; the very essence of explosions is the inability to control or contain them. She rules with an iron hand and a velvet fist; fair judgments, for the most part, but strictly enforced. Sometimes he wonders if she's as crazy as him. He doubts it.

Deep in the recesses of Ziggs mind, however, he knows several somber facts. There will never be order in the universe, or even in Valoran. For every evil contained, another rises. For every good deed done, several evil acts are committed. Sometimes the good will outnumber the bad, sometimes the opposite. Things are never in balance or control; things are in chaos. And you can't control chaos; that doesn't even make sense. You cannot explain everything in the known universe; some things are beyond explanation or reason. Those who accept this fact can move forward, content in the knowledge that they won't know everything. There rest will slowly lose their sanity. Like Kayle.

But that's all too deep for him to contemplate for long. After all, he still needs to finish the reaction sequence for this bomb. Perhaps if he raised the amount of oxidizer, the reaction would become more volatile and he could get a bigger boom. Now, where did that bomb go…?

Ziggs is carefree and aloof. He doesn't care for what cannot be explained; only bombs. If it's confusing, it's not worth thinking about.

She confuses him.

* * *

He frustrates her.

Kayle looks across the land of Valoran with a steady, hard gaze. In her mind, she holds the scales of everyone's life in balance; weighing them, judging them. She is unbiased and unfazed, the savior to the people of this world. She is always peace and fair.

And yet, he manages to frustrate her. The small yordle is constantly finding new ways to take the balance of peace in the land and somehow disrupt it. With his bombs always at the ready, he seems to take no account for the safety or peace of anyone else around. Countless times, Kayle has attempted to talk to Ziggs, explain to him that what he does is harmful and must stop. But holding a conversation with the little hexplosive expert is an impossible task if one isn't discussing bombs or explosions. His passion is chaos, and he will not be denied. When she attempted to use force, she was met with the realization of how powerful the seemingly crazy one can be.

Kayle can hold her patience against many. She has dealt with the most unreasonable and the most unruly of the champions of the league, and managed to keep a steady head. Even when confronting Morgana, she manages to stay civil and calm despite her sister's persona. Never before had she lost her temper. That changed when Ziggs managed to push her too far. She had tried to talk down the yordle from testing yet another bomb (on himself, for that matter). His responses were distracted and dismissive as he travelled from place to place, looking for somewhere to create the least amount of collateral damage (something she had at least managed to talk him into in years earlier). Finally, Kayle had had enough. Drawing her sword, she threatened the small yordle and commanded him not to go any further.

The crazed look Ziggs normally wore disappeared, replaced with a sharp, calculating stare as he stopped muttering to himself and turned to face Kayle. His smile had diminished some, going from the toothy grin of an insane person to the subtle smirk of intelligence.

"Stop me," he casually remarked. Kayle flew forward, anger finally clouding her judgment as she raised her sword. The next few moments were a blur, as she found herself having to deflect a number of bombs being thrown in her direction with surprising accuracy. Despite her best efforts, she was driven back, with every direction she turned blocked by an explosive of some kind or another. Before long, her ears were ringing, and she could barely see around the stinging smoke in her eyes.

When the air finally cleared, she found herself sitting on the ground with Ziggs standing a few feet away.

"There isn't always order. There's never order. You can't control everything; you can't know everything. The world is chaos. Those who accept that can move forward. Those who cannot will drive themselves to insanity. Like you," he said, tilting his head slightly. He held her gaze for a moment longer, and then the crazed smile and look returned to his eyes. Twitching and glancing around, she could hear him muttering to himself once more. "Now where did that bomb go…?"

As he wondered off, Kayle stared after him, righteous indignation welling up inside of her. He was wrong; he had to be wrong. There would be order, and there would be an end to chaos. Everything had an explanation; if you didn't know it, then you hadn't found it yet. She would create peace, and order, and she would do it by the edge of the sword. Because he was wrong. He had to be wrong. She, Kayle, the savior of her people, of all of Valoran, would create the order and justice that was meant to be.

Kayle represents justice and order. She is of sound mind and spirit. She will not be brought down; she will bear the world on her shoulders until she can right the wrongs eternally. She is not subject to trivial feelings or problems.

He frustrates her.


	6. Mutual Envy

She envies him.

Riven stands alone on the hill, staring out over the expanse that is Noxus. Her eyes always scan for patrols and soldiers; not for the threat, but to avoid the unnecessary violence. With no path, no conviction, she dares not kill without a reason. This is not like the League; the enemies out here do not respawn. Their blood coats the ground, and they are gone for good. She is lost.

And she envies him. She has seen him in battle and out, the steely warrior of promise. Though the helmet never seems to leave his head, nor the shield and javelin his hands, Pantheon is iconic for Rakkan and its people. His presence gives off authority and demands respect, and he is worshipped for his feats. The man scoffs at the prestige and glory of the League, and has voiced many times his distain of it for replacing true warfare. He goes forward with certainty and conviction, the same strength she used to have. And even though she does not share his ideals, she does envy his certainty, and wish it for herself.

She remembered the Rakkan from before the League was created; their fierce warriors would fight with an almost unmatched skill. Some wielded weapons of extreme power and wore enchanted armor, while others charged into battle naked and tore men apart with their bare hands. Their only weakness, she remembered, was their need to fight against the odds; a group of ten warriors would engage against one hundred Noxians, simply because they wanted a true challenge. Had they planned their battles and attacked en mass, she wondered if even Tryndamere's barbarian horde would remain unfazed by their zeal.

And Pantheon stands above them all. He is regarded as a hero and a god among the common people (common meaning soldiers who could only fight against five at a time, rather than ten). He returns to his home a victor and a beacon.

Riven shakes her head; as an exile, she has no home to return to. Noxus is not so foolish to believe her dead anymore, as joining the League erased all chances of anonymity. She is hunted and scorned by her own people, cast out and forgotten in her self-inflicted punishment. She is forced to hide, keeping away from any who may recognize her. So far, she has not been found (barring Talon, who visited her once, promising to sow misinformation in return for staying in the boundaries of Noxus and proving another distraction for Swain). She is someone with no direction, no conviction, holding a broken sword and hiding from the very people she once fought for. She is lost.

And so, she envies him.

* * *

He envies her.

He stands tall and proud on the mountain of Rakkan, inspiring all who look at him. He is an unstoppable force, a truly gifted warrior, and to the weak, an undisputed god of war. There is nothing and no one who can match him. He is champion.

And still, he envies her. He can see her, wandering around the forests of Noxus. She hauls her broken sword and heavy heart everywhere she goes. And somehow, Pantheon cannot help feeling jealous of her freedom; jealous of her ability to do as she wishes, with no restrictions, no expectations, and nobody to let down. And sometimes, when he allows his mind to wander, he wishes he were in her position.

He knows her story; he has studied all the champions in the League, doing his best to get matched up against only the strongest. He learned of her feats as a soldier, her skill and conquests as a leader in the Noxian military force. He also learned of her final battle, of the chemical warfare the madman Singed introduced, and her subsequent disappearance. He knows that she has lost her direction, lost her conviction in the Noxian way. But he can't shake the feeling that maybe that life would be better; at the very least, it has the potential to be.

She is an exile, yes. She is hunted by her own people, true. But she has her freedom. She can sleep where she likes, and nobody cares. She can disappear for days, weeks on end, and no one will ask questions. She can drop her sword and pick up a brush, painting canvas with colors more beautiful than the mountains of Valoran. She can craft an instrument, drawing from it such beautiful sounds that the birds around her are silenced in awe. She can pick up a pen, and with eloquent words, captivate an entire audience in poetry that reaches into the depths of their soul. Yet she cannot, will not, do any of these things. Her potential is limitless, and she has been handed the blank slate to do with as she pleases. And instead of making a new and beautiful future, she wanders.

A baker. It is his dream, his fantasy, if you will. Why, he can make loaves of bread so soft, they practically melt in your mouth. The rolls from his oven are the sweetest in all of Valoran, and don't get him started on his cakes. His skill on the battlefield is matched by his skill by the stove, the heat rolling over his body as his care and precision is embodied in the golden-brown pastries.

Even now, he can't help but smirk. Just a silly fantasy; none of his brethren know about his wishes, nor will he tell them. It would be a disgrace to his people, dishonor to his family and deal a huge blow to the moral of his men. They were fighters, not bakers; he would be laughed at until they could no longer stand. None in the league knew of his secret (except, of course, for Talon, but Pantheon was fairly certain that the man knew the secrets of all who resided within the walls; he was equally certain the man didn't care and, in turn, wouldn't say anything). He loves the fight, revels in the thrill of battle, and still part of him wishes to settle down, marry, and live a simple life. A sad, pathetic fantasy, he knows, that will never become reality.

He is respected, worshipped, and rewarded. Women throw themselves at his feet, men bow and hope to be touched by his shadow, and children dress up and imitate his feats on the battle field. He is a celebrity, a champion, loved and respected by his people. He has everything.

And still, he envies her.


	7. Good and Bad, Dark and Light

She lifts him up.

Veigar isn't known for his optimism. The small Yordle's very appearance is menacing, and his spells don't disappoint. Solitary confinement is a dangerous thing for such a social creature, and it has twisted his mind beyond repair. His focuses linger on death and destruction, pain and suffering. He knows how to cast his spells, inflicting the most pain possible on their targets as they hit.

But she lifts him up. She, who is almost completely his opposite, reminds him that the world is brighter than he would believe. Lulu's warm, bubbly personality is constantly at odds with Veigar's dark soul. Where he wants to destroy, she wants to create. Where he seeks to cause pain, she tries to protect. Even her attacks turn enemies into harmless, furry creatures, or sending Pixie to float around them. Granted, these are still attacks; but the mentality behind them is completely different. She is everything happy, good, and pure.

He isn't sure what it is they have, though he's fairly certain it's not romantic; there's no place in his heart for love, not with the darkness it holds. But he can't help but feel happy whenever they are together. Whether it is fighting together in the ring, or opposed, or simply spending time outside of the League to talk, exchange stories, and escape duties every once in a while. Each time, he is happy.

She tells him not to dwell on the negative. He tries; he really does. He tries for her, to make her happy. And sometimes he hates his darkness, simply because it brings him down. In those rare moments, he thinks he can really change. But the moment passes, leaving the knowledge that he is what he is, and that he will never change. Nobody ever truly does.

But she is not discouraged. She still talks with him, still spends time with him. And for that he is eternally grateful.

Veigar is a dark being, trapped inside the blackness of his mind. Lulu is the light, the small, sometimes dim, but visible light that gives him hope. Even if it's a false hope, she serves to remind him that there is good, that there is light in the world. And even if he can never experience it, the knowledge is enough.

She lifts him up.

* * *

He keeps her grounded.

Lulu isn't close minded or oblivious, per se. In her own words, she has "an acute case of optimism. Quite incurable." Everything in her mind is seen through several layers of rose-colored glass, with a backdrop of happy paintings and kittens and bunnies and squirrels. Many times, troubles and problems seem to fly right over her head, and she isn't always sure when something bad has even happened.

But he keeps her grounded. He, with is cold remarks and sarcastic wit, with his dark words and actions, reminds her that the real world is darker than she would believe. Veigar knows pain more than most Yordles. His experiences have pushed him to the brink of madness, and occasionally, he still comes dangerously close to the edge. And while it hurts her to see her friend in such a position, she is grateful for the knowledge, because it reminds her what a dark place the world can truly be.

Early on, in whatever relationship they may or may not have, she had tried to fix him. She had encouraged, sweet-talked, listened, and pushed as much as she possibly could. Occasionally, from time to time, it seemed as though he just might change. But she eventually realized that he would never truly change; his tortures had forever corrupted his mind. Still she remained on, knowing that, in the very least, her presence would help him.

It wasn't long, however, before she realized that their friendship was helping her as well. No longer was she blissfully unaware of the cruelty around her. No longer was the world perfect rainbows and sunshine; occasionally there was a storm, and occasionally there was pain. And she was happy; not because she enjoyed the bad, but because it made her a better person. Because she knew that she was more complete, and that he was the reason.

Lulu is imaginative and happy and carefree. But she knows that the world isn't always good; and she knows this because a dark Yordle serves as a constant reminder. And even though he'll never change, she values their relationship.

Because he keeps her grounded.


End file.
